Hum the Song the Soldiers Sing
by Bastetmoon
Summary: "You're a wicked man." His breath tickled her ear. "Name your price." Or: Murtagh struggles with the role he must play in Galbatorix's service, and a commoner finds herself in an uncommon position.
1. La Belle Dame sans Merci

**Wow it's been ages since I've written anything, and even longer since I've strayed into the Inheritance fandom (funnily enough the first fandom I ever wrote for). This is lovely piece of smut that I've had sitting around half finished on my computer for ages. But behold I have completed it! For now it's a one shot but I may add more to it if I have the time/feel the inspiration. Enjoy and please let me know what you thought.**

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Hum the Song the Soldiers Sing

" _O what can ail thee, knight-at-arms,_

 _Alone and palely loitering?_

 _The sedge has withered from the lake,_

 _And no birds sing."_

Two fingers—index and middle—tapped rhythmically on end of a carved armrest. Upon all sides of the great carven table bawdy laughter rose up in gales. Smoke from the smoldering pit rose in curling plumes to where a hole had been cut in the fabric ceiling of the pavilion. Music rose up from the corner, where a girl beat a small drum against the flat of her hand, raising up her voice to the tune of a ridiculous ballad.

Raising the goblet to his lips Murtagh took a long sip of the strong northern wine. The garnets upon the silver cup shone the color of dried blood in the dim light. Thick and heady he doubted it would take more than a few mugs to guarantee him an untroubled sleep.

All round the table sat King Galbatorix' commander's at arms. Old men mostly whose armor was too tight over their silk garments and expanding stomachs. The financial accounts and supply reviews had long ago been abandoned and now they laughed loudly, spilling wine across the already stained table cloth.

As always his minds strayed away, searching for a now familiar presence.

 _You're drunk Murtagh._ Thorn's thoughts grumbled across their mental link

 _Sadly not yet. Though I swear if this blasted rain doesn't let up…_ The army had idled for over two weeks by the shores of the river as they waited for the autumn rains to cease and for the gorged waterway to return to its usual size. The waiting had seemed into Murtaghs bones, setting a restless itch beneath his skin.

 _I'm sure it will, it cannot go on forever._ Thorn chimed but Murtagh's thoughts were still black. _Try to distract yourself._

 _I am._

 _Drinking yourself into an early grave goes not count._

Murtagh could have mustered more than a few choice words for Thorn's criticism of his drinking—what did he know?—but he still set down the goblet. _Take me hunting with you then._

 _The twins would not allow it._ Thorn was right of course. He had only been permitted to leave the camp to hunt, and even then only when absolutely necessary. The unnatural magic that had stretched Thorn's body had also left him with a voracious appetite that the sedentary army's herds alone could not satisfy if they were to also feed the troops. Murtagh could hardly claim the same excuse.

 _I'm sure you can find_ something _to occupy yourself until we can fly again._

 _Easy for you to say, I_ —but the dragon had severed their mental connection.

Murtagh scowled as Lord Berric heaved his immense girth out of his chair

"My good lords!" The pavilion went quiet, the singer warbling on before she too lapsed into silence. "May our swords be sharp and the blood of those traitors flow fast, eh? To the King!"

"To the King!"

"To the King _._ " Mechanically Murtagh raised the cup. He pressed the cold metal to his lips but did not drink. _To the King and his justice. Long may he reign._

"Dance for us girl!" Called out a man, and soon many others had taken up the cheer as well.

The singer, who had until that point wisely confined herself to the shadowy corners of the tent bounded forward. She was barefoot Murtagh noted disdainfully as she leapt up onto the table, scattering parchment and dishes alike.

Murtagh resumed tapping his fingers against the arm of the chair as the girl's drum came to life with a steady thud thud thud. She stamped her feet keeping time with the beet. Smoke from the brazier and from a dozen pipes swirled through the pavilion, clawing for escape against the black silk fabric. Hardly modest, the singer pranced about like a camp girl. Her skirts were drawn up about her ankles and a few greedy men leaded forward in hopes of glimpsing more.

Round and round she spun, until Murtagh looked away for fear of growing dizzy.

"Girl! Come, his highness needs more wine!" It was Barst, slim now divested of his custom made armor, whose voice cut through the muddled conversation once the drum beat had faded away. Like a cat the girl leapt down from the table and snatched up a pitcher.

She bent forward bronzed curls falling in her face as she made to refill the not yet empty goblet. Her eyes were dark, so brown they were almost black.

"What's your name?"

She gave him a crooked smile. "Yasha, m'lord"

"You are a singer?"

She drew herself up proudly. "Yes m'lord. What of it?" There was the slightest hint of an accent upon her tongue, as if this language was not her first.

"Nothing."

The girl smiled again though this time she did not show her teeth "Did you think I was a camp whore?" She nodded her chin to where Barst sat. "You wouldn't be the only one."

 _Bold isn't she._ Thorn's thoughts thrummed with something near amusement.

"You presume too much." Murtagh's ire was rising. Perhaps he _had_ thought it. But now he considered her she was too pretty to be one of those common camp girls, peddling their bodies to commanders and common foot soldiers alike.

 _Careful._ Thorn chided.

 _Oh, are you a dragon or a dormouse?_ Murtagh shot back. Thorn only snorted.

"Do I?" She had raised an eyebrow and Murtagh wondered vaguely if she was teasing him.

"Here, sit." In an effort to smooth his fraying nerves he proffered the chair beside him, the other had prudently left a buffer of a vacant chair or two between themselves and Morzan's spawn. She sank down beside him and if any of the other officers minded they were not about to voice their complaints.

"You sing very well."

"Thank you m'lord." She dipped her head again. Her curls bounced and he wondered what it would be like tangle his hands in them. He decided he would have her then.

"I have not seen you before. Do you perform here often?" He so rarely joined the bulk of Galbatorix's courtiers. It was an activity he avoided on principle.

"I try to avoid it," She admitted, "but coin is coin."

 _She has captured the essence of it._ Thorn was amused.

 _Yes._ Murtagh picked at spot on the tables polished surface. _I wonder how many of these fat men would be here if the King didn't keep their coffers full._

 _I wonder if_ we _would be here if we had a choice._

"Perhaps you will come sing for me some time." Murtagh brushed Thorn's words away and fixed Yasha in his gaze. "In private."

She laughed, low and soft. "Suppose I didn't presume too much after all." With a rustle of skirts she rose from the chair, gripping the serving pitcher with white knuckled hands. "Excuse me m'lord, I have cups to fill."

She turned her back to him, hips swaying ever so slightly as she made her way down the table. Murtagh tracked her as she flitted between the various commanders, always careful to keep just out of their reach. Once or twice her eyes strayed to meet his dark stare, but she always glanced away just as fast. He supposed she was in truth rather plain, with dark hair, and a spray of freckles across her nose. There were far greater beauties among the court of Urubane. Yet when compared to the opulent decay that seemed to linger about the old officers she was brilliant. Plain and lovely and so _alive_.

A few more rounds of the table, then as she passed him once more he reached out with a deftness that few others would follow. Yasha froze. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, dark eyes catching his for a moment.

"M'lord." It was barely a whisper.

Keeping her wrist trapped in his grip he leant forward. He could hear the intake of her breath as he whispered into her ear. "There is a guard wearing my sigil outside. He will escort you to my tent."

Her face remained impassive. "If that's what you wish M'lord." She tore away from his grip but not before Murtagh fancied he caught a deep flush rising on her cheeks. He watched as she slipped through the entrance to the pavilion and out into the night beyond.

Murtagh frowned, wondering if his restlessness really _was_ getting the better of him.

* * *

The guard deposited Yasha before a well-appointed tent. The sun had long ago set and above the sky was a net of glimmering stars. She hesitated but the man who had escorted her gestured that she was to enter and she drew back the flap with a shaking hand.

Lord Murtagh's tent was spacious, far more so than her own. The richness of the furnishings dazzled her. A large bed, carved of some dark wood and heaped high took up much of the space. Absently she ran a hand along one of the furs. Wolf fur, it was thick and soft. His Lordship would not be getting cold in the winters. There was also a desk littered with books and pieces of parchment and brazier around which crowded a few low chairs.

The Dragon Lord was not there and Yasha sunk down into a chair to wait. The coals glowed red hot. She held up her hands and watched the dim light spill between her fingers. Outside she could hear the gourds laughing amount themselves. She half wished she was out there as well.

 _You did this for yourself._ An unpleasant voice whispered in her mind. And of course she had, hadn't she. She shouldn't have been so bold, shouldn't have drawn his attention. _And oh god's why did I address him so casually_? There were more than enough whispers about the Lord to know better. One of the army laundresses claimed he fed those whom he defeat in battle to his dragon and she had hear more stories beside.

Yasha shuddered at the thought.

Still he had not _seemed_ like a monster really, certainly less so than the others. He had not even tried to look down her blouse once. Certainly there was something strange and removed about him, like some dark prince from a story. I _t's his eyes_. The thought of them still sent a tingle down her spine. _There is a dangerous man_. She had though when she'd first laid eyes on him. In that moment Yasha cursed every ounce of fearlessness she possessed in her body.

"Mistress Yasha."

She sprang to her feet so fast she almost toppled forward, and bowed. "M'lord." The Lord Murtagh stood in the entrance of the tent.

"Murtagh will do." His stare was just as intense as it had been at dinner, if not a bit more sobered. "Sit." She returned to her place by the brazier and nervously tracked the motions of his hands as he unstopped a flask and poured the contents into two goblets. "Will you take wine?"

"I do not drink m'lo-Murtagh." She caught herself.

The shadow of what she guessed at a smile hovered on his lips. "Then you'll have to start."

With white knuckles she took the heavy metal from him and raised the cup to her lips. She grimaced. "It's vile you know."

This time he really did smile. "I'll send you complaints to the kitchens. I'm sure they'll make it top on their priorities." He took a sip from his own cup. "I should not have spoken to you like that, though perhaps it was honest."

He regarded her as she took another sip, crinkling her nose. It felt as if his stormy eyes were swallowing her up.

"Will you sing for me?"

"Sing?"

"I did say I wanted you to sing for me, did I not?"

Yasha swallowed, she hadn't expected him to really want her to sing. Hadn't that just been a clever turn of phrase? Surely that would not be all he wanted. Still Lord Murtagh sat expectant.

She picked a song she knew well, one her mother had sung to her often as she drew the comb through her daughter's hair. It was an old ditty about the first snowfall, full of superstition and symbolism. The words were in the northern tongue but if Lord Murtagh minded that then it did not show on his countenance.

Yasha finished on a low note that faded away into the darkness.

Lord Murtagh nodded. "Where are you from Mistress Yasha? Your language is strange to me."

"North. North as north goes I suppose."

"Past Ceunon?"

She nodded thinking of the dark forests and cold winters of her childhood. "My father was a trapper you see."

"Indeed." A strand of dark hair had fallen between Lord Murtagh's brows.

She took another sip of the wine and found she did not mind it as much. "Forgive my boldness but you said you were being honest earlier. Then I must ask, you did not bring me here just to sing for you did you?"

"No." She fancied she saw something in the lines of face, a sort of hunger. It threatened to spill out and eat her alive. "I find you quite lovely."

Yasha dropped her eyes and felt heat burning her cheeks. "Do you seek to embarrass me?"

"If you wish to leave you can." A strong hand cupped her chin and brought her eyes level with his once more. "But you won't"

She could barely raise her voice above a whisper. "I told you I'm not a whore. You can't buy me."

He still had her face firmly captured in his hands and now he drew her close, pulling her from her own chair and onto his lap. One of his hands laced round to her waist and Yasha suddenly felt far too warm. "Couldn't I?"

"You're a wicked man." She meant it too. He was like some dark thing out of the tales her mother used to tell. Yasha's lips parted then closed once more. She was drowning. Her heart hammered so loudly she wondered if he might hear it.

"Indeed." A hand gripped her waist suddenly and he pressed his lips against her with a force that made her gasp. Yasha found her hands tangled in his dark hair ad he drew her onto his lap. She could feel the tightness in his breaches beneath her. Through the fabric of her own dress one of his hands found her breast. A little moan bubbled up past her mouth though she tried to quell it.

Murtagh's lips left hers and planted little kisses down her neck that made her breath hitch in her throat. His breath tickled her ear. "Name your price."

 _He's going to have me no matter what._ She realized. _And I'll let him_. She couldn't refuse the pull of those strong hands, the whisper of his lips. But even a fool would not give herself up for nothing at all. Not when he could offer her anything.

"I want a lyre, the kind with good strings." The demand came tumbling out of her mouth before she could stop herself. The meager coins she earned performing for soldiers could not have ever added up to an instrument like that. Not when she also had to eat. If she was going to whore herself to this man then she was going to take what she could.

"So you do have a price then?"

She shrugged easily and pushed down every last shred of shame. "No. But since you'll likely have me either way I might as well try."

He regarded her rather seriously. "Deal."

 _Oh gods, I'm going to be known as the girl who sold herself for an instrument._ Yasha wondered if that should bother her more than it did.

"Good, now take off your dress." Murtagh's tone left no room for refusal.

She slipped from his lap and stood, swaying slightly in the center of the tent. Steeling her breath she pushed her dress down over her shoulders. It settled to the ground with a rustle and cool air pricked at her skin. "Better?"

* * *

Murtagh surveyed the girl standing naked before him. The brazier had set strange shadows to dance across her skin. A good deal of scars spread like spider webs across the skin of her arm and legs but he hardly minded. Beautiful.

"Much." He stood from the chair, rather ungracefully as he knocked over his cup doing so. His own tunic, undershirt and boots he deposited in a pile by the cluttered desk. As the fabric fell away, revealing the skin of his back Murtagh waited for the soft intake of breath he knew as inevitable.

A fingertip tickled along his spine. The girl traced the twisted line carved in his flesh.

Quickly he turned, gripping her arms to her side so that she could not reach out and touch him. Confusion flashed in her eyes, bright and fleeting. The light of the coals painted streaks of bronze through her hair.

"You have been wounded?"

"Yes. I have." Lazily he cast himself upon the bed, one hand working the laces of his breaches. Yasha's eyebrows had drawn together in confusion. "Now come to bed."

"But how did—"

"I do not wish to speak of this." Before this he had kept his voice soft but now steel crept into it. He saw her expression harden as she understood the command. "Come."

She settled softly on the fur and silken sheets, the soft feathers of the mattress yielding slightly beneath her. He admired her as she reclined, the firelight casting a rosy glow across her skin. She quirked her head and smiled crookedly at him.

With a hand he reached out to pull her closer. She met him with warm lips, arms encircling him

"M'lord. M'lord." Her voice was a low murmur in his ears as his hands ran between her legs.

Murtagh hissed as teeth nicked at his neck. "I told you not to call me that." He repaid the favor, biting down on the skin of her throat.

"Murtagh then." She panted. There was something savage in her eyes when he drew back. "Do you like me like this Murtagh?"

Very much. He might have said but that would have been too many words. Instead he snarled and released her, sending her sprawling across the fur.

Yasha bared her teeth at him.

None too gentling he forced her down, onto her knees. Hands gripped at the soft skin of her hips. "Are you going take like this? Like a tavern whore?"

"I could."

"Yes, you could." She twisted slightly so to look at him. Her breath was ragged, "But I don't think you want to."

"You're right. I want to see your eyes." She was quite light and it was no hard feat for him to flip her about on the mattress. She stared up at him with and smiled. Her eyes were darker than ever, spilling over with a wild savage glee.

Murtagh drove down on her with an utter lack of restraint and he heard her cry out. She was smaller than he'd expected. Momentarily he slowed his movements and pressed his forehead to hers. Lashes tickled his skin. Yasha gasped as he began to move once more. Her hands gripped his forearms. As he set his pace she arched her back against the mattresses, her hair fanning out around her hair like a pool. Little moans rose out of her mouth wantonly and Murtagh knew he was little better.

With a hand beneath her he drew her up further, unto him. Finger nails scratched down his back. Perhaps she would draw blood, perhaps not.

He was certain the guards—and maybe half the camp—heard when he finally came, collapsing with cry. Sweat clung to them both as he rolled out from on top of her, fur and silk yielding softly beneath him. Beyond the glow of the tent the night noises of the camp continued on undisturbed. A cool breeze had blown out of the north. Through half lidded eyelids Murtagh could see the tent flap snapping with it.

Somewhere he was vaguely aware of Yasha, the tickle of her breath against his skin and the soft curtain of her hair. He caught her wrist as she made to slip from the bed.

"Stay."

Her weight settled on the mattress beside him, one hand running along the planes of his chest. She was whispering but whatever she said escaped him.

Murtagh drifted to sleep on the words of a lullaby he could not understand.


	2. A Brisk Young Sailor Courted Me

**AN: Wow, behold I added to this story! I very much intended to keep this as a oneshot and yet here I am. Sometimes you just feel like writing, and felt as if this story wouldn't let me go. This chapter is light on sexual content however there will likely be more of that in the future. I don't currently have a schedule for updates so I'll just be posting as I write, but I hope that those of you who enjoyed the first chapter will enjoy the rest. So hop on the MurtaghxOC train because this story is going places!**

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Chapter 2: A Brisk Young Sailor Courted Me

 _There is a man on yonder hill,_ _  
_ _He has a heart as hard as steel,_ _  
_ _He has two hearts instead of one,_ _  
_ _He'll be a rogue when I am gone._

The clatter of armor and the swish of the tent flap awakened Murtagh in the grey hours of the morning. Sleep fled from the edges of his consciousness as his hand closed on the hilt of the dagger that lay beneath the pillows. Beside him Yasha stirred but did not wake.

"Sir." It was merely a guard, the red sigil on his uniform dull in the dim light. "I have urgent news from General Barst."

Murtagh released the hilt of the dagger. "A moment."

In his mind Thorn's consciousness flickered into wakefulness. _It must be important for Barst to call so early._

 _Indeed._

He slipped from the bed in the semi twilight. The air was cool and crisp, a hint that winter would soon come. Quickly he dressed, retrieving his clothes from the floor where he'd so carelessly discarded them the night before. With deft movements Murtagh belted on the hand and a half sword that he carried always. Its weight at his hip was a comfort. Finally he drew the dark folds of his cloak around his shoulders.

Before drawing aside the entrance flap he cast a glance back at soft furs of the bed. Yasha lay still. Her hair fanned around her sleeping face like a dark pool and her lips were quirked upwards at whatever dream she wandered in.

Outside the guard was waiting. The man saluted as Murtagh emerged.

"What is so urgent that you needed to wake me at this hour?" Murtagh demanded.

"General Barst's men have captured a Varden soldier Sir. They're interrogating him now."

"Where?"

"By the eastern command post."

Murtagh's fingers itched. "You will remain here."

"Yes Sir."

The walk through the darkened camp was not a long one. The moon was still up in the northwestern sky, painting the tents in its silvery light. A cold mist hung to hollows and low ground but it appeared that the rain had passed for the time being. Once or twice Murtagh passed by a soldier—sentries hurrying to and from their posts—but they paid him little head except to give him a wide berth.

He arrived at Barst's tent to find that a full guard had been mustered outside. From within he could hear the gurgling of a dying man.

"Who goes there?" The guard's lowered their pikes, only to lift them once more when they caught sight of Murtagh's face.

Within the tent Barst sat in a magnificently carved chair, the heavily mustached Lord Carsten sweating visibly at his shoulder. A few others had a assembled, commanders, a captain who's name Murtagh had yet to learn, and Barst's own Master of the Rack.

They were all of them regarding a man who quaked upon the rush mats. A young man, Murtagh guessed that he could be no older than twenty five, though it was hard now to tell through the blood and muck. His hair had once been blonde, but now it was tinged russet. He screamed as the Master of the Rack pressed a heated iron against his forearm.

"Enough!" Barst rose as Murtagh stepped forward. "Lord Murtagh, at last." He gave a short bow though his words dripped with scorn.

Murtagh looked to the quaking man on the floor. "What is the meaning of this?"

"A varden captain. Lord Carsten's men captured him late last night."

"You should have sent for me immediately?" Anger prickled at the tips of Murtagh's fingers. Did Barst think himself so high?

"It seemed hardly necessary, and we had word that you were otherwise occupied."

"I am the King's direct representative. IF you keep things from me you are keeping them from the king."

Barst dipped his head again. "We all serve at the pleasure of his majesty."

"Why have you summoned me now?"

"We have need of your…talents. Despite out best efforts," Barst gestured to his torturer with his many instruments, "we have yet to procure any useful information."

"Why not call the Twins?"

"They have their own concerns."

 _That is his way of saying that they refused his summons._ Thorn snorted.

 _If only we could do the same._ Murtagh might serve with the army at the leisure of the King, but Barst was still the commanding General, and he wrote his own reports to Galbatorix. It would be no pleasant thing if he penned down that the new dragon rider was being less that cooperative. Murtagh shivered at the thought.

"Fine."

Murtagh looked down at the wreck that had once been a man and took his face in his hands. The man looked back with wide terrified eyes.

"I won't tell you anything."

"You're bravery is admirable."

The Varden soldier had placed rudimentary barriers around his mind but Murtagh's mental ray cut through them like a hot knife through butter. On the pavilion floor the man convulsed, his eyes rolling back in his head. The feeling of control, it was equal parts thrilling and disgusting.

Memories flickered past, vivid as real life. There was a house by the sea, a woman with red curls, a dog that snapped on the end of its rope. Murtagh pushed past these, searching for images of the Varden, for anything that might be of use. He saw rows of tents, the sun pounding down on the white walls of a city, a woman with dark skin that could only be Nasuada—Murtagh felt something in his chest clench at that memory—and finally recollections of a company of men camped beneath the cover of treas. Like emerging from deep water Murtagh withdrew from the man's mind. The varden soldier gasped and grew silent upon the ground.

"The varden have a company thirty leagues to the south, some sixty strong. They're planning to raid our supply lines and ambush our riding parties."

"Is that all? No other plans."

"He was not highly ranked, he nothing of the Varden's plans."

"Pity."

Lord Castren drew forward to peer at the unconscious man. "What shall we do with him now?"

"He's a traitor to the empire." Barst decreed, " Lord Murtagh, tell me, what is the King's penalty for treachery?"

Murtagh squared his jaw. "Death."

"Well then, you may do the honors. I believe you have a sword already?"

"In here?" Murtagh glanced around a the rich furnishing of commanders pavilion.

Barst shrugged, "We'll have to replace the carpets in any case."

 _You shouldn't have to do this._ Thorn hissed. _You are not their butcher._

Murtagh unsheathed his sword and it gleamed dully in the light from the torches. Two of Barst's men came forward to lift up the Varden captive, who was just beginning to wake in groggy confusion.

 _Do I have a choice? At least I will make it quick. I owe him that much._

* * *

Yasha woke in a tangle of sheets to find that Lord Murtagh was gone and sunlight was filtering through the canvas of the tent. It was well past sunrise. Vestiges of dream still clung to her mind as she shifted in the great bed. What a pleasant dream it had been. She had sat beside a low fire running the bone white comb through dark locks of hair, a song humming on her lips.

It had felt like home.

Groaning Yasha pushed herself up. The tent was much the same as it had appeared the night before: the brazier, the paper strewn desk, the low camp chairs. The only recent addition was a small platter of fruit, bread, and meat resting on the little low table.

She slipped from beneath the fur and silk. The thick carpet was rough with wear beneath her feet.

There was no sign of the Dragon Lord. Even Murtagh's clothes had been removed while her own lay in a crumpled heap beside the bed. Yasha dusted of the garments and slipped them on, shielding herself from the cool bite of the autumn air. A small hand mirror rested atop one of the traveling trunks and she hefted it, painfully aware that the polished silver was likely the richest thing she'd ever held in her hand.

Her reflection stared back, wide eyed and even wilder haired. She moved the mirror lower and yelped to see that a line of purple marks had flared across the skin of her neck and clavicle. The low neck line on her dress did little to hide them.

She offered up a quiet prayer to her gods that they would not judge her too harshly for her actions of the last night.

A rustle came from the doorway and Yasha rounded to see a man dressed in Lord Murtagh's personal livery standing in the entryway. Quickly she tried to smooth her hair down over the marks but from the small smile that quirked at the corner of the man's mouth she guessed he had already seen.

"Mistress." He gave her a little bow which she returned in kind.

"Soldier."

"Gideon, if it pleases." The man's hair was cheery gold that reminded Yasha painfully of her little brother, "I have a message from Lord Murtagh. He says he had urgent business and that yer to wait here for him." The man—Gideon—definitely smirked at that.

"Thank you. Did he say when he'd be back."

The man shrugged. "Not a clue mistress."

"Yasha."

He shrugged again. "As you say." The tent flab swished behind him as he left, leaving her once more alone.

Yasha frowned. Did Murtagh expect her to wait on his leisure all day? That she had spent the night in his tent hardly made her his property, to order as he pleased. Still she remembered the stories she'd heard whispered around campfires of the ruthlessness of the Dragon Lord. It would not do anger him by disregarding his wishes.

She took a pear from the platter a food and settled at the little desk, consigned to wait for Murtagh's return.

Books and scrolls littered the desk. Words that made no sense to her untrained eyes stood out in spikey rows across the pages. A few of the books had ink drawings in them and Yasha amused herself by looking at them. One was of a army, the little pikes marching down the parchment, another of a scaled beast that could only be a dragon, and finally a man in armor with a little ink crown resting upon his brow. The back of her neck tingled as she started down at the little illustration. Yasha wished she was able to read the words that danced beneath the images so that she might make sense of them.

Boredom soon lured her to the tent's entrance. Outside three guards squatted by a low fire tossing a dice and laughing. One of them—a dark haired man who sat beside Gideon—looked over and let out a low appreciative whistle.

"Mistress Yasha." Gideon hailed her and gestured to his companions. All three wore Murtagh's livery. "This is Darren and Joss."

"Well met."

She squatted down to warm her hands. Her breath rose in a little puff of white and though it was already near midday frost still clung to the mud in places where it had not been disturbed.

"General Barst had need of him." The dark haired soldier, Darren, spoke.

"Who knows what Morzan's Spawn does, or where he goes." The third man, Joss—whose cheeks were ruddy—made a gesture as if to ward off evil.

"Morzan?" The name seemed half remembered, like something she'd once heard as a child.

Darren scowled. "Aye, he's Morzan's bastard ain't he? But our good King's gone and made him a little lord and we get to lick his boots."

"Hmm."

"Where'd he find you then?" Darren was peering at her, "Don't reckon I've seen you round the whore's tents before."

Yasha felt her cheeks color shamefully, but before she had a chance to retort Gideon cuffed him on the back of the head. "Ach, she's too pretty to whore for the likes of you."

"Apologies mistress." Darren rubbed his head vigorously and scowled at his companion. "What brings you to the army then?"

"I'm traveling south." Yasha acknowledged. The army was a good a way to travel as any, they had supply wagons to ride in and warm fires at night.

"Whatever for?"

"Looking for work I suppose." She'd fostered hopes of finding employment as a singer in one of the great southern cities, or else of entering into a great house as hired help.

"Recon there'd be more in the North than the South right now. They've escaped the war so far at any rate." Joss poked at the fire with a stick.

Yasha shrugged. "Maybe, but the last few winters hit the North hard, and I much fancy marrying a trapper and tanning hides for the rest of my life."

"Fair enough."

They sat for a few minutes in companionable silence. At length Joss pulled out a little carved flute and trilled the first few notes of a song. Yasha exclaimed aloud for the song was familiar to her. The word's flowed from her mouth, and soon Darren and Gideon had joined in. A bawdy song, best suited to taverns and drunkenness it told of a young women who was courted by a rouge of a sailor.

They were halfway through the second verse when a shadow slid over their party. The words died on Yasha's lips and Joss's flute wavered into silence. Murtagh was looking down at the four of them with a scowl on his face. She noted the dried blood that clung to his hands and sleeves of his tunic.

At once the three guardsmen snapped into hasty salutes. Yasha rose more slowly, shaking dirt from her skirts and inclined her head to him.

"Mistress, may I have a word."

"Yes, of course."

She followed him back into the privacy of the tent. Once they were well out of sight he turned to her. There was a dark anger in his grey eyes. "You would do well not to act so familiar with my men."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I do not like to share what is mine."

"I am not your slave _m'lord_." She saw him visibly stiffen at the use of the formal title.

"Of course not, however, as my mistress I had hoped you would show more discretion."

Yasha's eyes went wide. "You're mistress?"

"Unless you would prefer otherwise? But you don't seem the type of woman to sell herself for a single night to me. In any case it would be a waste."

"I-I, What would be expected of me, as your mistress?"

"Apart from sharing my bed?" she nodded, "You would pour my wine, entertain me in the evening, keep conversation. I am often busy during the days and when we are marching, so I doubt you would see me often during those times. However, I assure you that you will be both safe and comfortable here."

"Is that all?"

"You're loyalty and discretion would also be required."

"And what of you? You order me to remain loyal, can I expect the same regard?"

"I see no reason to seek company elsewhere."

"Very well."

"You accept then?"

She dipped her head. "I accept, after all I am shamed already."

Murtagh stood taking her hand and brushing his lips to the back of it.

"I do not mean for you to be shamed."

There was nothing particularly intimate about the gesture, none more so than any man might greet a women. He was aware, and so was she that this was at its essence a bargain, a business deal made over her own skin. Yet it was his eyes that lent their pact a sense of both gravity and desire. Her stomach fluttered uneasily at the thought.

"And yet so it is." Yasha shrugged, "its little matter. We are at war, this is not the time for soft hearts and virtue."

 _But what happens when you tire of me? Will you cast me aside to ruin?_ Yasha wondered. But then she'd been ruined from the moment she'd entered the commanders' pavilion, one way or another. _We are at war, we all do what we must._

Murtagh turned his back to her and crossed to where a small pitcher and wash basin had been set out. He set about washing the dried blood from his forearms, tinging the water with the color of gore. The sight of it drew Yasha's eyes and she found herself unable to look away.

"May I ask, why are you covered in blood?"

"Not mine."

"Whose then?"

He fixed her with stony eyes for a moment. "Does it matter?"

"I suppose not."

Her turned away from her, rinsing the gore from his hands in the water basin that had been laid out. His hands he dried on the front of his tunic. "If you must know we captured a varden scout."

"Did you kill him?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

With rough movements he set the basin aside and dried his hands on a strip of linen.

"He was a traitor to the empire. Traitors must be punished." The tone in his voice told her that the topic was closed for discussion.

* * *

The rains that had kept the army trapped for so long were finally lifting. Murtagh could see patches of blue amid the dull grey of the clouds and in places the sun shone down in little bursts.

He sat beside the ruby dragon on a patch of grass—one of the few that had not been overcome by mud and horses. He leaned against the dragon's warm side and fiddled with the pommel of his sword.

 _Will we go south soon?_ Thorn's thoughts thrummed like a deep chord.

 _It appears so._ Already Barst had called for the baggage train to begin assembling and the camp had come alive in a sudden whirr of activity.

Murtagh watched as soldiers passed to and fro in their black livery. He kept replaying what he had seen in the Varden scout's mind. The confused mass of memories, the fear, and of course the wild rush of control Murtagh had felt when he had subdued the scout's consciousness.

 _I do not see why it troubles you so._ Thorn snorted, little tendrils of smoke rising from his nostrils. _We share our minds all the time._

 _Yes, but voluntarily._

 _We are fighting a war little dragon. Not all the things we must do will be easy._

A man's mind should be his sanctuary. By invading it how am I any better than the King?

Thorn snarled, startling a passing soldier. _You are nothing like that tongue twisted mad man._

 _Am I not?_

 _The king invades minds because he can, you do because you must._

Murtagh frowned and continued to pick at the sword hilt. _I'll be glad when this damn war is over._

 _So will I, but until that day comes we must harden out hearts._

Thorn's words echoed what Yasha had said, that war was no time for passion or virtue. She may be a peasant girl from nowhere but Murtagh supposed that she too had her own sort of small wisdom.

A small rumble rose as if unbidden from the dragon's throat. _We still need to talk about that._

 _You don't approve?_

 _The king watches us closely little dragon. You put her at great risk by keeping her close to you._

 _I will take your concern into account._

Thorn snorted again and this time a great tongue of fire shot from his nostrils, scorching the grass. Yet Murtagh had the distinct impression that the dragon was laughing at him. _By which you mean you shall do exactly as you please._

 _Nonsense, I take your advice very seriously._

Thorn turned to fix him with one glittering ruby eye. _Lie to others all you want little dragon but you can never fool me. You are reckless._

 _And you are timid._

 _We are a balance, then. As it should be._

Murtagh cast his head back and his eyes upward to the blue, blue sky. The last of the clouds chased each other in the breeze before dissipating into trails of vapor. _As it should be._

* * *

Murtagh returned late that night, as he had warned her he often might. Yasha had been dozing by the fire but she woke as he brushed through the entrance flap. She rose, pulling the cloth of her shawl closer about herself, as he sat on the edge of the bed and began unlacing his boots. The cast of his shoulders was tense.

"Wine?"

He glanced up at her and she thought he looked tired. "Yes, thank you."

Yasha poured a goblet from the decanter that had been set out and slipped it into his fingers. She settled beside him on the furs, one hand resting like a pale spider against the dark fabric of thigh.

"Are you troubled?"

"We will begin the march south tomorrow." Murtagh swirled the liquid in the goblet and did not meet her eyes. Whatever it was that troubled him he clearly had no desire to discuss it with her.

"That is good knews then?"

"Indeed, we need to be south before the snow comes."

"Does it snow in the southern lands?"

"Some, though not nearly as heavily. And there is none at all on the Hadarac."

"The Hadarac?" The word tasted foreign on her tounge.

"A great desert, sand as far as the eye can see."

Yasha tried to picture such a thing: a world of heat and sand that had never known the white blanket of snow. It did not seem conceivable. "I would like to see that."

Murtagh snorted and Yasha half though she saw the glimpse of a smile on his lips. "You're very strange Mistress."

"And you are not?"

"Am I?"

"Yes." Yasha took in his face, the face of the man they called _The Dragon Knight_ , who they say slaughtered the kings enemies. He looked too young. "I think you carry too many ghosts for your age."

His eyebrows drew together, his momentary mirth forgotten, "You are too bold."

Yasha laughed. "You've said as much, but I only speak the truth."

"You would not last a minute in the King's court."

"No." Yasha agreed, "But then I'm just a peasant."

Murtagh captured her face in his hands, titling it so she looked up at him. He kissed her, none too gently, teeth scraping against her lips. One of his hands tangled in her skirt, drawing it up about her waist. When he touched her Yasha's breath hitched in her throat. He smelled of smoke, leather, and the faint metallic tang of blood.

"Come then peasant girl, make me forget about today."

* * *

 **I hope that this chapter will be as pleasantly recieved as the original was, and I look forward to any input you all may have. It's a joy to return to the Inheritace fandom again :) спасибо**


	3. The Price of Peace

The Price of Peace

 **I just heard the news about Paolini's new book (you could say word travels slowly to Russia), and I'm pretty excited. I'm aware I haven't updated this story in a long time, however, I none the less hope this long overdue chapter is enjoyed.**

" _Peace without Justice is a low estate,—_

 _A coward cringing to an iron Fate!_

 _But Peace through Justice is the great ideal,—_

 _We'll pay the price of war to make it real"_

* * *

"Our scouts have found the party that the Varden traitor spoke of."

Murtagh reclined in his chair and watched through narrowed eyes the great lords in their burnished armor. Most were transfixed by the captain, now giving his report, but few muttered to one another or else were deep enough into their cups to be oblivious as to the preceding.

 _Bastards, every single one of them._ Murtagh thought derisively.

 _And what does that make you?_ Thorn wondered dryly.

A wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He took a sip from his wine glass. _I suppose I'm biggest bastard of the lot._

"And?" Barst leaned across the table when the man had finished speaking. He was in full armor today, adding an immense bulk to his otherwise slim frame. "Can we easily defeat them?"

"They're no more than sixty, My Lord, but they're encamped on hill past the ridgeline." The soldier looked nervous, sweat beading his forehead, "We'll have a hard time overwhelming their position."

Maps littered the great wooden table. On one in particular—detailing the lands to the northwest of Bulridge—a small sigil had been drawn, marking the Varden Company against the woods and ridges.

"What of their condition." Lord Merric, a rotund man with a carefully trimmed beard—pressed the scout, "Surely they cannot continue long without reinforcements from the south."

"They are well supplied my lord. We have reason to suspect they've been taking aid from nearby villages."

The generals muttered amongst themselves. Lord Merric turned to the man at his right and began to murmur furiously.

"Enough." Barst spoke first, voice tinged with a quiet sort of fury. His eyes glinted. "We will have to teach these peasants a lesson."

Lord Bretton frowned, the wrinkles around eyes deepening. "There are hundreds of villages between here and Surda. It would be impossible to know where they received their aid."

"Forget the peasants a moment. What of the Varden? We cannot allow them to continue to run rampant through the countryside."

Murtagh admired the way the light from the braziers glinted off the red stones of his goblet. He had not yet drank as much as he was accustomed to during tactical meetings and his own voice sounded clearer than usual. "Send a party to dispose of them immediately. A hundred men should be more than enough."

"And if they are accompanied by a magician?" Barst sneered. Though Murtagh had not breached the older man's mind he could feel the waves of contempt rolling off his thoughts. "One spellcaster could easily decimate a company."

"I will lead the men myself." He doubted even the strongest of the Varden's magicians could hold their own against the magic Galbatorix had imparted upon him.

"Eager to begin fighting are you Lord Murtagh?" Lord Merric smirked, "It is not all chivalry and honor as your nursemaid will have told you."

"Perhaps not." _And don't I know it?_ An image flashed before Murtagh's eyes, of steal and fire, of blood on the tunnel walls beneath Farthen Dur. "But I'll do what's necessary."

"Very well." Barst decided, "You'll have your company. You can ride out this afternoon if you're so eager."

There were more matters to discuss after that: supply lines and medical provisioning, and a brief argument over the fastest route to Surda. Murtagh paid little head. Tomorrow he would ride out of the camp, away from the simpering commanders, and Galbatorix' spies. A part of him was uneasy at the thought of destroying the Varden encampment. It was not the killing that bothered him, he had killed before and no doubt would again. Yet, this would be his first time acting under the King's banner.

 _Things would have been different if I'd never gone to the Varden in the first place._

 _Stop fretting over the past. We do what we must to end this war._

The Lords and Generals filed out after that, taking their leave into the cool evening air. As Murtagh made to pass the pavilion's flaps Barst stopped him with a heavy hand on his shoulder. "The King is eager to hear of your progress with the army."

"I imagine so." Murtagh made no attempt to disguise the contempt in his voice.

"Find out who has been supplying these traitors, and I'll be able to give him a good report." There was a threat in those words. Murtagh didn't want to think about what a bad report to the King might mean for Thorn or himself.

 _It will always be like this. Always trying to prove to Galbatorix that I can be trusted, forever at the whim of his mercy._

Murtagh stared into Barst's beady eyes. "And when I find them?"

The general chuckled. " _If_ you find them, I would see them burned."

* * *

"There are two visitors mistress."

"Lord Murtagh is not here." Yasha waved a hand over her shoulder at Gideon and smoothed the folds of her gown. She turned her attention back to the parchment inscribed with notes for a new ballad.

"No matter, after all we came to see you." A silky voice drifted through the tent. Yasha sprung to her feet, wheeling round. Two men stood near the entrance of the tent. They had entered so silently she could have sworn they'd simply materialized. They were identical, with shaved heads and flowing robes. Even their movements came in perfect synchronization as they bowed to her.

"Mistress Yasha." The man on the left spoke. "We are the twins." That much at least was obvious.

Then the one on the right. "We have heard much about you."

A prickle ran up her spine but she curtsied nonetheless. "Pleased to meet you m'lords."

"The pleasure is all ours." Their smiles seemed slightly too sharp, their teeth too white.

Yasha smoothed out her skirts. "Forgive me, but I don't know how I could possibly help you."

"Hmm." The twin on the left regarded her with a critical eye, "But it seems to us that you are a remarkable young woman."

"Indeed, how else could you have captured Morzansson's interests so indefinitely?" Their was a suggestion in those words.

"I-I" Yasha stammered, and felt a flush rise to her cheeks. Shame and anger rose in her stomach but before she could muster a retort the leftmost twin held up his hand.

"Don't fear mistress, we simply wish to ensure that your loyalty will not waver."

"My loyalty? To Lord Murtagh?"

"And to the King."

"I am a loyal servant of the empire."

"Of course, and yet there are spies and rebels everywhere."

Yasha's heart caught in her chest. Did they think she was a spy? A varden traitor? It was an outlandish proposition, bordering on comical. Yet the twin's faces were utterly serious.

"We wish to enter your mind, to ensure that you bear no ill will to either his lordship or his highness."

"My mind?"

"Indeed," The right twin nodded, "there is much that can be learned from the mind."

Yasha swallowed. "And if I allow you to do so it will remove any doubt of my loyalty?"

"So we hope."

"Very well." Yasha smoothed her skirts and took a deep breath. "You may…do whatever it is you wish."

The twins stepped forward in perfect unison. The left-most man raised his palm to her brow. "This will be easier the more you relax."

Yasha tried to regulate her breathing, fighting the urge to push the men away. There was something unnatural about them that she couldn't quite identify.

The man's palm was smooth against her forehead, unusual cool for the touch of skin. It took all her effort not to flinch as she felt something strange and alien pressing against her mind. A sudden pain erupted behind her eyes and Yasha found she was no longer looking at the bald man. Unbidden images of her childhood flashed before her: her father's sled gliding over the heavy snow, the little house with its bright woven rugs, swimming in ice cold spring water under a thousand stars. Yasha could feel tears prick her eyes as the twins dug deeper into her being. It was too much. Too much, she tried to tell the twins, but her mouth would not obey the thought.

 _Enough!_

Like a barb is extracted from a wound the twins released her. The thick carpet of the tent rushed up at her in a haze of color. The men made no attempt to catch her and Yasha found herself upon hands and knees. Her mouth tasted of metal and her head pounded.

"Fascinating."

Yasha looked up to find the two men gazing down on her with inscrutable eyes. Rising on wobbling legs she drew herself up to their level.

"Did you find everything you needed?"

"Oh yes, we are satisfied."

That at least relieved Yasha. The feeling of the Twins inside her mind had felt _wrong_. She would not have welcomed their presence a second time.

"Then _perhaps_ you should be on your way," She could not keep the coldness out of her voice, "I'm sure you have far greater duties to attend to than questioning mistresses and serving girls."

A flash of something, perhaps anger, perhaps something else glared in the twins' eyes. Yet when they spoke their voices were smooth as ever. "Indeed. It was a pleasure to meet you Mistress."

"The pleasure was all mine." Yasha tried to smile but found her lips would not form the appropriate shape. They offered the shortest of bows and she curtsied.

She watched them retreat with relief.

"Oh and mistress." One of the twins paused by the entrance of the tent, fixing her with that blank glare. "There is no need to bother Lord Murtagh with our visit. He has far more important concerns."

* * *

Murtagh felt Thorn's muscles shifting beneath the saddle as the dragon sidled through the campsite. Under one arm he carried a wooden box, and with the other he held tight to the saddle horn, still unused to the shifting of Thorn's gate. All along the camp thoroughfare soldiers had stopped in their duties to watch the pair pass.

 _It feels cumbersome to walk when we could be flying._ Thorn grumbled. _Look how they all stare, you'd think they'd never seen a dragon before._

 _Most of them haven't._ Murtagh reminded him. Since crossing the river Thorn had been confined to the ground. The further south they went the more likely he was to be spotted by rebel scouts, and the King was determined that Thorn's existence be kept—at least for the time being—from the ears and eyes of Varden spies.

 _Will we at least fight alongside one another tomorrow?_

 _No, I will lead the men alone._ Thorn snarled, startling some of the onlookers, but Murtagh held up a hand. _I need to gain their trust as a commander, I must be among them. Besides, the Varden don't know about you yet. We shouldn't give away the surprise now._

 _Foolishness._

 _Perhaps, but it must be done._

When they reached the tent Murtagh dismounted, feet hitting the ground heavily. Yasha emerged from the inside and he saw her face whiten as she took in Thorn. Still she curtsied, if a bit more wobbly than usual, and extended a hand to Murtagh. He took it, pressing a chaste kiss against her skin.

"This is Thorn." Murtagh stripped off his gloves and handed them to her. Her hands shook as she took them.

 _Well met little wolf._ Thorn projected his thoughts so that Yasha and anyone else in the immediate vicinity might hear.

Yasha stiffened and turned to Murtagh with a mixture of fear and amazement reflected in her dark eyes. "It speaks."

Thorn snorted _. Of course, did you think I would be as stupid and mute as a horse?_

"Of course not, I beg your apology m'lord dragon. You are truly a sight to behold." She gave him a little bow before turning tale and ducking back into the tent with his gloves.

 _You are forgiven._ Thorn snuffled and added privately to Murtagh, _I like her._

 _Of course you do, everyone likes flattery._

Thorn pointedly ignored the comment. Instead he projected his thoughts for Yasha to hear _. And where do you come from wolf-girl? You have a smell of snow and smoke about you._

"Mayhaps." Yasha smiled, cheeks like two apples flushed with the cold. "My home is far to the north, past Ceunon. It's wild country and I fear that wildness has not yet left me." Murtagh listened with interest. While he'd known she came from the North, she had never before spoken to him of her time before the army.

A curl of smoke drifted upwards from one of the dragon's nostrils. _Such wild lands must have good hunting._

"Indeed, there is. My father used to tell us tales of great white bears, so big they could eat a man in gulp."

 _A bear would be no match for me._

"Certainly not." Yasha agreed seriously, "Bears cannot breath fire." It seemed to Murtagh that the fear and tension that had stricken her had all but melted away. Instead she gazed up at the dragon with an expression Murtagh could only describe as rapturous. He cleared his throat.

Yasha turned to him, hands smoothing out the fabric of her skirt. "I had not thought to see you until evening. Should I send for wine?"

 _You do not like to share her attentions._ Thorn remarked. Murtagh ignored him.

"Don't bother. I only came to see my saddle and armor is readied." He nodded to Gideon who stood by outside the tent in the livery of the Empire. "You, bring my horse."

A slight frown flashed across Yasha's features. "You are riding out?"

"Aye. I am leading a company to dispose of a Varden encampment." Out of the corner of his eye he saw one of the guards spit at the mention of the Varden troops.

Yasha crossed her arms, tucking them neatly across her chest. "When do you leave?"

"Nightfall."

"Surely you must sit a moment! Joss fetch a plate and some mulled wine for his lordship."

The man—who had been loitering by the fire—flushed scarlet and scrambled to attention. "Yes Mistress." He set off through the camp at a sprint.

Thorn chortled. _The Little Wolf certainly has your men dancing to her tune._

 _Why do you call her little wolf?_

 _Is she not like a wolf? She smells of freedom, high mountains and snow under the trees._

Murtagh glanced at Yasha where she was busy stoking the coals of the brazier. Her hair fell in long dark curls down her back. _You think so? I had not noticed._

 _She is wild, and free._ Murtagh heard the tinges of melancholy tugging at the corners of his mind-partner's thoughts. _Be careful you do not try to put her in a cage Murtagh._

 _That is not my intention._

"I have brought something for you." He pulled the box from underneath his arm and unfastened the lid to reveal a lyre. The dark wood gleamed in the dim light.

He could hear the catch in her breath as she beheld it.

"Take it." He held the instrument out to her.

Yasha's fingers brushed against the polished wood before moving reverently to the strings. Gingerly she plucked a chord and laughed aloud at the clear sound that rang through the tent.

"It's beautiful."

"It matches your talents well then."

She placed the lyre back in its snug box and turned to him. Her eyes seemed to shine. "I cannot thank you enough for this."

"I keep my promises." His fingertips ghosted along her collar and Yasha sighed. Her hand travelled the plane of his jaw, then down his neck and finally to rest with her palm on the flat of his chest. He could feel thud thud of his heart reverberating in his own ears.

"Will you be fighting tomorrow?" She asked, looking up at him through dark lashes.

"Yes." One of his fingers traced the line of her jaw, lifting it upwards so that her eyes met his, silver in the firelight. "I doubt the rebels will surrender without a fight, even outnumbered as they are."

"Are you afraid?"

"It will only be a small battle, nothing to fear."

Yahsa pursed her lips. Murtagh could see that she disproved in the way her eyebrows drew together and her eyes narrowed. "Men die every day."

"They do," He kissed her, tilting her face upwards as he did so. Her body pressed against his for the briefest of moments, and then she drew away. Murtagh reached past her to retrieve his sword from where it lay on the low table. "But I am stronger than most men."

* * *

In the dim light of evening Yasha stood beside the tent. The wind snapped at the dark linen of her shift. Her hands knotted in the fabric. Mist curled from the ground, steeling its way about the white pitched sea of tents.

Murtagh barked an order to his guards and then brought forward his horse: a great Bay that snorted and stamped. For the briefest of moments Yasha was intimidated. Then she remembered his other mount, who could snap her in half with a single bite. Suddenly the horse did not seem so menacing.

"Fair hunting, and good luck." Yasha tried to smile, the expression felt all wrong. _Men are going to die tomorrow. I must pray he's not among them._ Yasha was no fool. If something were to befall Lord Murtagh then her own safety in the camp would be forfeit.

Muragh pressed his lips against her upturned forehead, stiff and formal before the eyes of the guards. Then he swung up onto his mount. Yasha watched as he disappeared into the misty rows of tents.

"Don't fear for him Mistress, your Lord Murtagh will return."

Yasha cast sharp eyes at Gideon, where he sat stoking the guard's fire. He would be her guard while Murtagh was away.

She shivered, stuck by a coldness that had nothing to do with the chill in the air. "What will he do with the Varden, when he captures them?"

Gideon let out a dark chuckle. "Your Lord is not a kind man, mistress. I doubt there will be survivors." He made a motion across his chest, as if warding off evil. "Like father like son, they say."


	4. The Mask of Anarchy

The Mask of Anarchy

 **I hope everyone enjoys another chapter. I got some really lovely reviews on the last one. While, ultimately I write because I enjoy it, the feedback is also really appreciated and often brightens my day. So thank you!**

* * *

" _And if then the tyrants dare_

 _Let them ride among you there,_

 _Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew,—_

 _What they like, that let them do"_

 _Yasha dreamed of fire. To her it seemed the whole world was ablaze, great pillars of flame erupting from the ground beneath her feet. The smoke from it clogged her lungs, choking her and making her eyes water._

This is hell. _She thought._ I've died and gone to hell.

 _All around her she could hear the clash of metal on metal, and the dying screams of horses and men alike._

 _A cry echoed through air._

 _It was an unearthly thing, like nothing she had ever heard before. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. She wheeled wildly, searching for the source of the shriek. Again, she heard the scream and her gaze was drawn upwards._

 _Far above in the smoky air two creatures writhed. Blue and red, they plummeted through the haze of the battle like a comet._

Yasha woke with a start, hand reaching instinctively across the bed for Murtagh. But he was not there. She was alone.

* * *

Blood, the metallic scent of it clogged Murtagh's nose. Underneath his boots the first dusting of winter snow was tinged pink. Far above the carrion birds already circled, cawing expectantly.

With swift, decisive movements he wiped clean the blade of his sword and sheathed it at his side.

They'd found the Varden party on the second morning, just where the scout said it would be. They'd set upon them in the grey hour before dawn. The Varden men were disoriented, unorganized. In the end it had been more a massacre than a battle.

"Lord Murtagh!" Two men in the Empire's livery approached through the wreckage of the campsite, half dragging a third between them.

"Sir, we found their commander as you requested." They released he prisoner who fell on his hands and knees at Murtagh's feet. He was bruised and bloody, but still alive. On the front of his leather jerkin the emblem of the Varden was still visible. With the toe of one boot Murtagh nudged the Varden captain.

"What is your name soldier?" Murtagh demanded, but the man did not speak. He did not even acknowledge the question. "Speak man!"

" _You_." The soldier looked up at Murtagh through swollen eyes and his face twisted in disgust. "I remember you."

Murtagh did not recognize the man. Then again there had been many Varden soldiers at Farthen Dur. Still it seemed the man knew his face.

Murtagh fought to keep his voice level. "Who supplied your company?"

"Traitor." The man spat, his saliva tinged with blood. "We welcomed you, and this is how you repay us?"

 _Welcomed me?! Hah!_ Murtagh could not help but let out a small chuckle, _You were all too happy to lock me away, until you had need of me. Some welcome that is._

When his mirth subsided he focused once more on the man. "Tell me what I want to know, or this will be unpleasant."

The man hissed. "I'd rather die than share our secrets with a turncoat like you."

"Very well." Murtagh stripped off one of his gloves, the right one, to bear his hand. "Hold him." He directed to the soldier's, who seized the man by his arms and held him up. Murtagh pressed his palm against the man's sticky forehead and pushed with his mind.

 _If you won' tell me_ , Murtagh thought, _then we'll do this the hard way._

* * *

Whores and washerwomen were not the only hangers-on to the camp. Wherever the army settled small stalls and tents began to appear around the edges. There, in makeshift markets, merchants hawked their wares at trumped up prices.

"I should ask Lord Merric to up my allowance."

"Would he?"

Laera shrugged. "If I asked in the right way how could he refuse?"

Arm in arm the two women made their slow pace through the makeshift marketplace. Yasha kept the hood of her cloak up, letting the fur obscure her face. Soldiers talked, she knew, and the days of passing anonymously through the camp were gone. Laera had no such inhibitions. Her hood was drawn back, allowing fiery hair to whip in the wind. Combined with the stark white of her cloak it made her a hard sight to miss. Yasha felt the eyes of half a dozen soldiers and merchants as they passed.

Before Laera had found a place in Lord Merric's bed she'd worked as a camp woman. No doubt some of the soldiers still remembered her from those days.

"Look here, fabrics from Dras Leona." Laera tugged at Yasha's arm, drawing her over to a wagon full of bolts of cloth.

"Good day mistresses."

Laera flashed the old man a brilliant smile. "Good day to you as well." They spent a time examining the various bolts. Laera favored brighter fabrics: emerald green, violet shot through with veins of silver, and even a silky fabric in a rather shocking shade of pink.

"I love this color, such a shame it clashes with my hair." Laera sighed, holding up a bolt of silk in deep crimson. "It would suit you though."

Yasha brushed her fingers against the fabric. It was cool as water and thin as gossamer. She laughed. "Where would I wear something like this? Around the camp? It's too thin, I'd catch a cold."

Laera shrugged. "Suit yourself. If Morzansson would rather see you in plain rags that's his choice. But I've never met a man who doesn't appreciate a woman in silk."

Self-consciously Yasha smoothed he folds of her own gown. It had been a gift from Murtagh. The soft brown wool kept her warm in even the bitterest of winter chills. It was by far the finest dress she had ever owned; she had never considered the garment as plain. The idea of wearing silks and velvets in an army camps seemed to her wildly impractical. _The day I dress like that is the day I have supper with the king himself._

As they moved on through the makeshift market Yasha listened to Laera chatter. Most of what she had to say was nothing more than gossip, which lord was feuding with which general, and who was lying to wife. Still every so often she would impart a gem of wisdom. It was Laera, after all, who had first introduced Yasha to the bitter tea that would ensure that Murtagh's seed did not take root in her womb.

At length Laera asked her about her arrangement with Murtagh. She always seemed particularly curious where he was concerned.

"I am satisfied with it." Yasha paused to inspect a bundle of soft grey yarn being sold by a pockmarked old woman, "He guarantees my safety, and has been more than generous besides."

"Well I don't envy you. I hear he has a nasty temper."

"Who says that?"

Laera smiled knowingly. "His men of course. They say he takes after his father in that regard."

"You mean Morzan?" Yasha had heard the name before, first from the twins and then later from Gideon. Still it meant little to her. "Do you know much about him?"

Laera only shrugged. "Just stories."

* * *

They found the village easily. Small enough to go unnamed, the location of it had none the less been simple to tear from the mind of the Varden soldier. Small, thatch roofed building's crowded along the banks of the river. Even from a distance Murtagh could hear the baying of dogs and ringing of alarm bells. Clearly, they had been spotted.

Murtagh shivered. What he had seen in the Varden's soldier's mind disquieted him. Reading the man's—his name had been Durwin—thoughts had been far too easy. From the terrified mess of his mind he'd learned that the Varden were indeed massing in the south, but that their numbers were far greater than anyone had anticipated. Not only this but they were well supplied. Clearly Galbatorix's attempts to cut off supplies to Surda wasn't working.

But most unsettling of all, he had seen _her_. In the man's mind she had occupied a resplendent, almost regal place, a young figure in silk who none the less commanded the loyalty of the entirety of the Varden.

 _It's not worth thinking about her. Nasuada is your enemy now._ He reminded himself firmly.

"What are your orders my lord?" At his said the soldiers waited for a command.

"Find the village leaders. Bind them and bring them to me." He considered the rest of the village. There would be no speedy way of telling who amongst the villagers had aided the Varden. Once before he had shirked from the idea of punishing the innocent along with the guilty. He'd run from the King then. He no longer had that option. "Burn the rest of it to the ground."

* * *

The sky above was dark with the expectation of snow, and a chill wind bit at the exposed skin of Yasha's face. Next to her Laera pulled a shawl tighter around her shoulders. All around them the soldiers, captains, and hangers on gathered to watch company trot back into camp.

Murtagh rode and the head of the column. Despite the cold he wore no helm and his dark hair whipped in the wind. Blood and soot darkened his cheeks but Yasha saw no mark of injury on him. For that at least she was grateful.

As he passed men whooped and hollered. Cheers of 'dragon knight' and 'Hail Morzansson!' rang out.

The soldiers riding behind him looking equally well. A few passed with bandaged arms and legs, but nothing worse. Yasha saw no empty saddles.

 _Did we not lose a single man?_ It seemed wildly improbably. And yet, Murtagh _had_ promised her that the battle would be small.

Last came the prisoners. The men had been tied backwards on their steeds, gagged and bound so that all they could do was bounce along miserably. For a moment Yasha judged them to be Varden soldiers but then she saw that they wore only the sack-cloth and scuffed leather of common farmers. Their heads were bowed as their steeds carried them before the eyes of the assembled army.

The grim procession halted before the command tent where Barst and the other commanders stood waiting. The twins stood among them, dark robes flapping in the wind. For a brief moment Yasha felt their eyes on her. A prickle ran up her spine that had nothing to do with the chill air.

Murtagh dismounted and Yasha watched as Barst clapped him on the back. Even from a distance she could see the scowl that passed across his face. Then the general turned, barking something indiscernible to the waiting guards. Like sacks of flour the prisoners were thrown down from their mounts and dragged into the command tent.

"Come on." Laera looped her arm through Yasha's, "We might as well go. They'll be in there deciding for some time I fear."

"Deciding? Deciding what?"

Laera tossed her head. Her tone was cheerful. "How best to execute the traitors of course."

* * *

Murtagh found Thorn sitting outside his tent. Strangely, the dragon was not alone. Yasha sat between Thorn's front legs.

"Welcome back." She smiled up at him, "I was glad to hear of your victory."

"Not much of a fight I'm afraid."

 _The little wolf has been telling me stories of her home. Such a wild country I would like to see one day._ Thorn grumbled. _Did you know, in the North the people worship animals like gods. Bah!_ The dragon snorted, a wisp of grey smoke escaping his nostrils. _The strange things you humans come up with._

 _I'm glad you've made a new friend._

 _If this human girl is to be part of your life, then she is also part of mine Murtagh._ The idea of that disquieted him. Until now, Murtagh had not considered his and Yasha's agreement in so far at it might affect Thorn. If Galbatorix or the Varden learned of her, she might become a liability. Thorn hummed, _Peace, peace. I did not mean to unsettled you._ _I like her and I think she is a good companion for you._

"You must be tired." Yasha rose, brushing dust off her skirts. She'd left her hair loose, a dark tumble down her back. Plain and lovely, he decided she looked best that way.

"A bit." He admitted. _Though I fear more in mind than body._

Thorn rose as well, his scales tinkling against one another as he did so. Nearby the guards eyed him warily. Murtagh looked at him quizzically. _Where are you going?_

 _I must eat._ The dragon seemed amused _. Besides, I don't need to hear you and the little wolf. Human mating customs are strange indeed._

As soon as they were alone in Murtagh's tent Yasha ordered the guards to heat water for a bath.

"You smell of blood and horse." She said distastefully, wrinkling her nose.

When the great basin had been brought out and filled with steaming water she helped him undress, removing first his armor and then peeling of the sweating tunic and breaches beneath. He slipped into the hot bath and sighed, letting some of the tension ease out of his limbs.

Yasha also stripped down into her shift and then set about scrubbing the blood and sweat from his skin. It was oddly soothing.

 _No one has done this since I was a small child_ , he realized.

Yasha sang as she combed her fingers through his now wet hair. As always, she sang in that strange language of her homeland. Murtagh closed his eyes and tried to fit images to the alien words. In his mind they painted pictures of vast pine forests, starry skies, and the taste of freedom. Ever so slowly Yasha eased away the last of the memories of what he had seen in the Varden captain's mind.

At length she ceased her song and asked, "What will happen to the men you captured?"

Murtagh opened his eyes, vaguely irritated at the interruption. "Barst will interrogate them."

"And then?" Yasha perched upon the edge of the basin, one hand dipping into the steaming tub.

"Then…" He hesitated, "then they'll be executed."

She recoiled slightly, anger flashing in her dark eyes. "They're civilians, not soldiers!"

"They're traitors." He told her firmly, trying to make himself believe the words even as he spoke them. Pitying the prisoners would get him nowhere but trouble. "Besides there is no such thing as a civilian in a war like this. We all choose our sides." Yasha pursed her lips but said nothing. "You disapprove?"

She looked down at him, those dark eyes critical. "Perhaps."

"It was not my decision to make." He admitted.

 _Why do I feel as though I have to explain myself to her?_

"I don't think you're a bad man, Murtagh." Yasha's words were soft, almost a whisper.

 _Then you don't know me at all._ He thought bitterly.

With a sudden movement Murtagh reached out and seized her wrist. The brush fell against the pavilion floor with a muffled thump. Yasha let out a small cry, as without warning he pulled her into the tub with a great splash.

Any vestiges of anger seemed to melt, and she splashed him playfully. "I take it all back, you're a scoundrel!"

There was hardly enough room for the two of them in the basin, and she soon settled in his lap. The fabric of her sheath—already thin enough as to be transparent—clung to her body in the water. He was keenly aware of how she pressed against him in the confined space.

"I'm glad you're back." Yasha ran one hand across his collar; the skin seemed to tingle where she touched. Murtagh kissed her roughly, not caring his lips left bruises. In that moment he only wanted to forget the burned village, forget the Varden, forget the king.

Pain bloomed on the side of his neck and Murtagh realized with a heady jolt that Yasha had bitten him.

"Little savage." He hissed.

"Yes," He could feel her breath in his ear, "but you prefer me that way." She ran her hands down his stomach and he groaned. He needed her.

With a growl he half lifted her, turning so that she was beneath him, pressed up against the side of the basin. Water sloshed everywhere but, in that moment, Murtagh hardly cared.

* * *

Naked Yasha lay curled against Murtagh's side. One of her hands rested across the broad planes of his chest, where she could feel the steady rise and fall of his breath. With slow motions he combed his fingers through her still damp curls.

While her body welcomed the rest, her mind still roiled with questions.

"Who was Morzan?" Yasha felt Murtagh tense.

"Who has been saying that name?"

Yasha propped herself up on her elbows and with a finger brushed a strand of hair out of Murtagh's eyes. "The soldier's call you Morzan's son." So had the Twins, though she would share that particular memory with him.

He shifted so that he was looking at her. In that light Murtagh's eyes were so dark they almost appeared black. "Yes, he was my father, if you can really call him that." He hesitated, then added, "He was neither a good man, nor a good father."

"And your mother?"

"I hardly new her." His voice was sad, softer than she had ever heard it. "What of your family? You rarely speak of them."

"That's because my parents were no-ones, just as I am a no-one."

"That can't be true. Everyone is someone."

Yasha laughed softly. "My father was a trapper, with a great beard of blond curls and cheeks like apples. And my mother had the most beautiful long dark hair you've ever seen." Yasha toyed with a strand of her own dark locks and smiled at the memory. "She used to say that her family was descended from a wood spirit who married a man."

"That's nonsense."

Yasha shrugged. "Probably."

"Tell me more about them." He whispered. Yasha could feel the tension in Murtagh's body once more easing away, the weariness in his voice. She told him about her life in the little cabin at the edge of Du Weldenvarden, about her mother who used to sing while she combed her hair, and her father who always told the most amazing stories. After a time Murtagh's breathing slowed.

When at last her voice faded to nothing Yasha saw that he was asleep. Gently as she dared she pressed her lips to his forehead.

"Sleep well, Murtagh Morzansson."


End file.
